


Shaken

by geekmama



Series: A Fork in the Road [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8421946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Molly, who was now sitting primly beside her new husband on a bench in Waterloo Station as they waited for the train that would carry them to Portsmouth and the ship for Italy, gave Sherlock an occasional sidelong glance as she reviewed the events that had unfolded the previous night...





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Earth" prompt.
> 
>  
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> *********************************

There had been no bans, Sherlock having obtained a Special License, and the wedding was small and quiet, the guests few and select: Sherlock’s brother and parents; Dr. and Mrs. Watson; Mrs. Hudson and young Archie; Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who had become a close friend of the family over the years; and Molly’s mother and her sister, Philomena, who had made the journey from Bath for the event. Molly’s brother-in-law, James Cavanaugh of the blackened eye and broken nose, had declined the invitation. Philomena had explained, apologetically, “He said I must on no account miss my sister’s wedding, but someone must stay and take charge of the children.”

“How I pity the children,” Sherlock had murmured, when Mena was barely out of earshot, and his eyes had lit with amusement when Molly failed to entirely stifle a chuckle.

She had put off her blacks, which she felt was what her father would have wanted. Instead she wore a gown of pale lavender silk, a wreath of tiny white flowers adorning her upswept auburn hair beneath the matching veil. She had been unsure of the gown's color, and the style, too, which was fresh from Paris, according to the modiste she and Mary Watson had hurriedly consulted. But when she saw the way Sherlock looked at her as she walked down the aisle of the little church on Dr. Watson’s arm, her mind was set at rest, and the flush of pleasure that heated her cheeks seemed only to increase his admiration.

Sherlock’s brother (or, more likely, his brother's minions) had seen to it that there were bouquets of white flowers adorning the altar, and white flowers tastefully decorating the ground floor of his home as well. It was there, in Mycroft’s dining room, that the wedding breakfast had been held, after photographs were taken in the big library. The repast was elegant and varied, every course paired with fine wines, and champagne served with a very beautiful wedding cake. Molly had quite failed to do justice to the feast, though she had tried to at least taste every wonderful dish, and drank more than enough wine to make up for it, what with the gentlemen vying for Best Toast of the Day. It was a convivial gathering, for all its lack of size, and with her new husband keeping her in a bubble of laughter with an ongoing series of acerbic asides meant for her ears alone, she thought she had never been so happy in her life.

By mid-afternoon the guests were replete, the last toast given, and the bridal pair retired to separate bedrooms upstairs to change into their traveling clothes. Molly’s mother had grown too lachrymose with the wine to be of much assistance, so Philomena alone played the part of lady’s maid and, unfortunately, advisor, telling her sister she should not expect too much joy from her wedding night. “Men are such beasts, my dear, you can as yet have no notion. Why, when James and I married I was so shocked by the whole business I wept for hours when it was over, while he snored on, fit to wake the dead. Or so I thought at the time. One becomes accustomed to such things. It wasn’t long before we began to go along quite swimmingly, particularly after little Jane and then Sarah came along. And then the twins. Children are such a blessing! Such solace! So do not refine too much on the events that will inevitably unfold this evening. It will become easier to bear, I assure you, and there will be many advantages to compensate in the meantime.”

Yet Mena had been entirely wrong.

Molly, who was now sitting primly beside her new husband on a bench in Waterloo Station as they waited for the train that would carry them to Portsmouth and the ship for Italy, gave Sherlock an occasional sidelong glance as she reviewed the events that _had_ unfolded the previous night. How she could ever have thought him cold… or inconsiderate... She turned her face away, aware that a blush was creeping up her neck and cheeks, and she shifted very slightly on the hard bench.

But of course he noticed.

“Mrs. Holmes, are you quite well?” he asked, taking her hand, his voice soft and low, and amused. Again.

She pressed her lips together, but then said, quietly, “You will not laugh at me!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She gave an exasperated huff.

He had made the arrangements for the previous night himself. They’d stayed at the Savoy, the most luxurious hotel in London. Their room featured such fascinating innovations as electric lights and a marble en-suite bathroom, complete with hot and cold running water, but it was the enormous bed, that claimed Molly’s immediate attention when they were shown to their room. She could not help but remember Mena’s words, even though she knew Mena was a goose and Sherlock was no James Cavanaugh. Being a medical student, Molly knew a great deal more about human physiology than Mena, too. Yet it was undeniable that she was… not frightened, but a bit nervous.

Sherlock knew it. Somehow, between challenge and cajolery, she ended up sitting on his lap, again, while he explained to her exactly what he was going to do, and how, and that she had only to tell him if she disliked any of it and he would stop immediately. This conversation was oddly matter of fact, yet punctuated with kisses and cuddling, and such an undertone of fond amusement that she was soon feeling far more at ease. They began, slowly, to undress each other, and the rest was merely a natural progression.

Though _merely_ was hardly the word for it. There was nothing _mere_ about it.

“How did you know?” she demanded now, though keeping her voice down.

“Know?”

“All _that?_ What you -- what _we_ did last night!” And suddenly she was afraid of his answer, even though she knew quite well he had been as profoundly affected as she.

The last time they’d made love, for example, at something like half two in the morning, had, after a drowsing, languorous beginning, ended with them both shattered entirely. God knew what the persons in the adjoining rooms must have thought! Afterward they’d lain trembling, rather stunned, twined together until they’d fallen deeply asleep, a tangle of limbs, skin to skin, so exhausted that they had not again awakened until the sun was well up, it was past eight o’clock, and they would have been late to catch their train if they had not rushed like mad things -- and if the train itself had not been running a half hour behind schedule, resulting in the current chance for reflection on a topic that was singularly inappropriate in such a public venue.

And that had only been the _last_ time.

She clutched his hand, remembering the first. How she had cried out as much in pleasure as in pain when he had finally penetrated her, slick and sure, careful, and it _had_ hurt, but he had prepared her so well that she had  _reveled_ in it, both shocked and filled with joy that such a thing was possible, and reveled, too, in the way his control slipped away and he was steadily reduced to incoherence, exactly as she had been not once but twice in the previous hour.

She swallowed hard, remembering. Remembering.

Sherlock drew her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed her fingers, his eyes alight. Then he said, “Mrs. Holmes, you know my methods. This was a question of such importance to us both I dared not leave it to chance. Research was needed. Experts were consulted.”

She frowned. “Experts?”

“Have you heard of Madame Celeste’s of Bennet Street, off St. James’s?”

“No.”

“Well, not surprising. It is a house of prostitution, a very exclusive one, and Celeste is the proprietress. She and her girls owed me a favor.”

Molly’s mouth dropped open and she felt the blood drain from her face.

Sherlock looked a little alarmed. “ _Research_ , not experience. I asked them questions, and they were most instructive in their replies. They sent their best wishes to you, by the way. And that helpful vial of scented oil.”

Molly was much relieved at this reply, yet could not help continuing to frown up at the outrageous man she had married. “Research. They told you how to do all those things you did… we did… _you_ did, last night?”

“They told me how to make your first experience a pleasurable one. I had no desire to hurt you.”

“Y-you did, though.”

“I know.” He kissed her fingers once more.

After a slight pause, she said, “I can hardly wait for you to do it again.”

His expression became smug. Speculative. Mischievous. “Patience, sweetheart.”

She sighed, and for a minute or two they sat quietly, holding hands, waiting for their train, watching other, less fortunate people walk to and fro. But presently Molly said, “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, Mrs. Holmes?”

“When we return to London, I quite think I would like to meet Madame Celeste and her girls, to thank them. And perhaps conduct some research of my own.” She looked up at him, with a pretense of innocence. “Do you think you would be able to arrange it?”

Sherlock looked somewhat taken aback at first, but she could almost see the wheels turning as he considered the implications, the possible results of such a visit, and of such research. “Something might be arranged, yes, though you would certainly have to go in disguise. We’ve only now completely restored your reputation with your school, it wouldn’t do to be found out. You might dress as a man. Perhaps with a false mustache.” He reached up and touched her cheek, very lightly, with the back of one knuckle. “You have an exceedingly feminine countenance.”

He wanted to kiss her, she could see it in his eyes. “Do you know,” she said, squeezing his hand, “I quite think I am going to enjoy being your wife very much indeed.”

“It is certainly my intention to ensure that you do,” he replied. But then he suddenly looked up. “And now, I believe our train is finally coming into the station.” He rose to his feet, pulling her up beside him. “We should board with all haste. I was able to engage a private compartment for us when I purchased the tickets.”

“An indulgence indeed on such a short journey, but your foresight was admirable,” she said, smiling. “But may we not have breakfast, too, Mr. Holmes? You will recall that we arose so late this morning that we missed it entirely at the Savoy. I find I am quite famished.”

“The _transport_ does, indeed, require fuel,” he murmured with a sigh of impatience. ”Very well, Mrs. Holmes, it shall be as you wish. I expect there will be sufficient time to satisfy both our appetites.”

 

~.~


End file.
